


Could Be Worse (Could Be Raining)

by kototyph



Series: teenwolfholidayexchange [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Luck Stilinski, Broken Bones, Christmas, Crack, Hospitals, M/M, Murphy's Law, Oops Unintentional Angst, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 05:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kototyph/pseuds/kototyph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Stiles and Derek spend Christmas Eve in the hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Could Be Worse (Could Be Raining)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lucy-in-the-soup-with-croutons](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lucy-in-the-soup-with-croutons).



"…ow," Stiles says in a tiny voice, not trusting himself to open his mouth any wider. "Ow, ow, ow _—_ "

And everything was going so well, too. In retrospect, _suspiciously_ well: clear skies, warmer weather, everyone getting to the house on time for once. They'd even all brought what they were supposed to— Scott on rolls because it's all but impossible to mess up rolls, you buy them in a can for Chrissakes; Boyd on potatoes and yams, Erica on carrots and celery, Allison and Isaac on cranberry sauce and stuffing mix, Lydia and Jackson on desserts, Derek on the goose.

The enormous, frozen, easily fifty-pounds-plus goose. Like, Goosezilla. They'd put it out in the garage, in one of those freestanding freezers the serial killers always use to store bodies before chopping them into little pieces with a band saw (which, funnily enough, the Hale garage also has tucked away in a corner).

The heavy, slippery, goddamn motherfucking Christmas goose. Which, in the midst of Stiles wrestling it up and out of the freezer, has just slipped from his hands to land with a sudden and sickening crack on his right foot.

" _Shit_ ," he whimpers.

The door into the house bursts open and Derek freaking _lunges_ for him, just launches himself off the top step and doesn't put one foot on the ground between there and where Stiles is wobbling in place, eyes watering from the pain radiating up his leg as he tries a single hobbling step. Derek looks furious, eyes thin slits of red glowing against the darkness, and so of course Stiles jumps and yelps and windmills backwards— he absolutely defies anyone seeing a werewolf suddenly leap at them to react any better.

Derek catches him, but the wrenching movement rockets the pain in his foot up to _screaming agony_ and the sharp keen that forces itself past his teeth makes Derek swear and haul him up into his arms. Stiles would protest, really, but he's too focused on the way spacetime seems to be bending around how fucking badly he hurts to care that Derek's got an arm under his knees, that he's carrying him bridal-style back into the house, where everyone has clustered around the door. Scott says, "Stiles, what's wrong, we heard—"

"Move!" Derek barks, and they scramble to get out of the way as he barrels through them.

Stiles is trying very hard not to hyperventilate but he's probably just broken his foot and he still needs to run to the grocery store because he got green beans but forgot the french-fried onions and the pie dough hasn't been made and there's no way the betas won't burn the house down if he has to go to hospital.

"You're going to the hospital," Derek growls.

Well.

"Okay, then," Stiles says shakily. "Does everyone remember where the fire extinguisher is?"

* * *

"—and Scott, just follow the directions on the package," Stiles says over Derek's shoulder, pointing threateningly at his best friend as the werewolf carries him towards the waiting Camaro. This bridal-style thing, it's becoming a theme. "Don't get creative. Don't add anything to them. Don't try to, I don't know, make one giant super-roll out of them. Just put the dough on the baking sheet and stick it in the oven, okay?"

"Fine," Scott says, but he looks a little sulky about it.

Derek yanks open the door and sets Stiles on the front seat, leaning over to buckle him in like he's somehow broken his brain instead of all the bones below his ankle. Stiles leans over to see around him.

"Boyd! You'll have to start the goose without us. Just— not above 325 degrees, okay? It's supposed to take hours, you can't rush it."

"Thirty minutes at 500 degrees, got it," the asshole says with a smirk.

"I will end you," Stiles threatens.

Derek puts a hand on his face and shoves his head inside as he closes the door. Stiles flips him off, and rolls down the window.

"Isaac, the pie crust—"

"Put the butter in the freezer first, crumble until pea-sized, don't overmix or it won't be flaky?"

"You're my favorite," Stiles tells him, because it's true. Behind him, the driver's side door slams shut and engine turns over with a guttural roar. "And you—" he starts, turning his admonishing finger on Peter.

"Will be in my room, making no noise and pretending I don't exist," Peter says smoothly.

Stiles eyes him. "Because it's Christmas," he says magnanimously, "I will allow you to help Boyd with the goose. On a strictly probationary basis."

Peter's face does something strange, like his evil undead heart is trying to grow three sizes this day.

" _Don't make me regret this!_ " Stiles yells as the Camaro peals out of the driveway.

"Close the goddamn window, it's freezing," Derek snaps.

" _And don't forget about the—_ ow, damn it! My hand was still out there!"

* * *

"Look, they have wheelchairs— which you're obviously going to ignore, okay, that's fine," Stiles says, trying to find a position in Derek's arms which does not make him feel like a soon-to-be-ravished heroine in a romance novel. It's a lost cause.

The receptionist, a broad Hispanic woman, looks at them over the horned rims of her old-school spectacles and, with sarcasm oozing from her every word, asks, "Can I help you gentlemen?"

"He needs a doctor," Derek says, gesturing with Stiles' body like he weighs as much as a bag of flour.

"Whoa there, Prince Charming," Stiles says, wiggling around until he can get his wallet out of his back pocket and fish out his insurance card. "Um, hi? I think— I think I broke my foot."

She takes the card, tucks it under the metal guard of a clipboard full of paper, and hands it back to him. "Have a seat and fill this out, please. You'll be seen shortly."

Derek doesn't move.

"His foot is broken," he says to the woman, biting off each word in carefully enunciated pieces. "He needs to see a doctor _now_."

She's unimpressed. "The sooner you fill those out, the sooner we'll be able to get you that doctor. _Have a seat."_

She and Derek glare at each other, and into the tense silence Stiles asks, hopefully, "Is Melissa McCall working?"

She gives him a flat stare. "Who?"

Of course.

"Nothing, we'll sit down now." He has to kick Derek with his good foot to get him moving, but the man grudgingly turns to the waiting hospital chairs, which are just as hard and uncomfortable and trapped in the seventies as he remembers.

Derek— Derek _fusses_ , there is no other word for it, collecting all the issues of Sports Illustrated that are less than two years old and bringing them to Stiles, tucking his jacket around Stiles' shoulders, yanking a chair out of its bolts in the floor so Stiles has something to rest his leg on.

"Are you _crazy?_ " Stiles hisses, eyes darting around the room to see if anyone saw. There are a few families and some couples, but mstoly everyone seems to focused on their own misery to notice anything else.

"No," Derek says, and sits so that his back is to Stiles, staring out at the waiting room like he expects rogue alphas to come in through the ceiling or floors at any minute.

"Damn it," Stiles mutters, more wearily than anything else, and gets to filling out the paperwork.

He's just sent Derek back to the desk to deliver the finished forms when the public address system crackles to life above their heads and a voice says, " _Would the owner of the black Chevrolet Camaro, license plate MGH-7896, please move your vehicle into the parking lot? You are blocking an ambulance bay._ "

"Oh, great," Stiles says, letting his head fall into his hands.

" _I repeat, could the owner of the black Chevrolet Camaro, license plate MGH-7896, please move your vehicle?"_

There's a stubborn set to Derek's mouth as he walks back to Stiles, and Stiles makes shooing motions with his hands.

"Go, repark, I'll be fine," he says. "Seriously, there are five nurses at that station in front of us, I'm not going to keel over and die without anyone noticing."

Maybe he shouldn't have mentioned the d-word, because Derek gets all tight-lipped and narrow-eyed. Stiles rolls his eyes.

The voice is starting to sound a little pissed now. " _Would the owner of the Chevrolet Camaro please move your vehicle? We will have the car towed at the owner's expense."_

"I promise, I'll be right where you left me. Now, vamoose. Onward. Mush."

Derek scowls at that, but mercifully turns and strides back towards the doors to the parking lot. Stiles shakes his head, and starts flipping through the stack of SI to see if there are any swimsuit issues to admire.

Derek's been gone barely five minutes, and Stiles has just found a nice long article that, if he were to go by the pictures alone, seems to be mostly devoted to the comparative strengths of sports bras around the world, when the receptionist calls out, "Mr. Stilinski?"

Stiles jerks his head up guiltily. "Uh, yeah?"

"Your ride is here," she says dryly, a nurse with a wheelchair waiting beside her.

"Oh," Stiles says. "Crap."

* * *

He lets the nice lady to help him into the chair and wheel him away, down hallway after featureless hallway. Derek is going to be pissed he left, but fuck it, Stiles wants pain medication more than Derek's dubious brand of 'moral support'.

Fifteen minutes after he's been helped up into a bed, a girl bounces into the room and announces, "Hi! I'm Lisa! I'll be your attending technician!"

She's way too bright and bouncy in bubblegum-pink scrubs and purple tennis shoes, neat makeup and a high ponytail. Stiles feels irrationally annoyed by everything about her, from her peppy attitude to her sparkly shoelaces— maybe because he's in horrible pain and missing the Christmas dinner he's been plotting for weeks. He feels like a general who's had to leave the execution of his brilliant battle plans to the cast of Gilligan's Island. Jackson is totally Ginger.

"Please tell me those are Vicodin laced with morphine," he says, when "Hi! I'm Lisa!" produces two pills in a paper cup and some water.

"Oh!" she says, enthusiastically concerned. "No, sorry, just Tylenol. How's your pain? Can you rate it on a scale of one to ten?"

"Eleven," he says petulantly, because it _hurts_ , damn it, and for some reason he'd assumed being in the fucking _emergency room_ would mean speedier service.

She tuts at him, fingers tapping over the keys of the computer next to his bed. "I need you to be as accurate as possible, sweetie," maternally, like she isn't at the most four years older than he is. "Now, if ten is the worst you can imagine and zero is no pain, how do you feel?"

So between Anakin getting his legs eaten off by lava and puppy kisses— "Six?" he says, trying to objectively evaluate the slow hot throb in his foot. "Seven?"

Her frown is a little more genuine now. "I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Whatever they do end up giving him, Stiles is enjoying the hell out of it when Derek skids into the room an hour later, flushed and out of breath like he's been running.

"Stiles!"

"Heeey, you made it," Stiles says, waving the remote at him. He's feeling pretty good now, his head bobbing along like a balloon a few feet above and behind his body, and on the television opposite his bed The Christmas Story is restarting for the third time. Derek showing up is just the icing on his awesome mood cake. Or, you know, whatever. Thinking is hard.

"Stiles," Derek says, a little less frantic and a little more pissed, "why the hell are you in the gastrointestinal unit?"

"Gastro-what now?"

"You're on the opposite end of the building from the ER! In the digestive health wing!"

Well, that explains the colonoscopy chart he's been staring at for the better part of an hour. Although, come to think of it— "Oh, Lisa said something about the regular ER being full? Like, there not being beds, and stuff. So they're sending people here? My roomie's in for food poisoning. Hey, roomie!" he calls.

In the bed across the room, a short, balding man named Ben gives them a feeble little wave, still looking gray and worn out. He's been watching the movie and telling Stiles all about his adventures with his own BB gun when he was a kid, in between bouts of dry heaving.

"It was the salmon mousse," Stiles whispers loudly, and giggles.

Either Derek has never seen The Meaning of Life, which, _travesty_ , or he just doesn't care. He collapses into the chair next to Stiles' bed and rubs a hand over his face, holding out his phone to Stiles with the other.

"Erica called, earlier. Apparently your dad showed up at the house and—"

"Crap! Give me that," Stiles says, the fragile bubble of stoned happiness floating at the top of his skull popping with a sad sense of finality.

* * *

" _He and Peter are in the den,"_ Erica says. _"I think they're playing Spoons?"_

"Playing—? Listen to me, Erica, do _not_ leave my dad alone with that creep, send someone in there!"

_"But I'm making the mashed potatoes, and Boyd has to cut up all the carrots and turnips, and we can't find Scott and Allison—"_

"Take turns, then! Do rotations! Better yet, lock Peter in the basement."

_"You told him he could help."_

"I changed my mind!"

A huff. " _God, fine. I'll send Isaac in."_

"Thank you! Now, are you using sour cream in the mashed potatoes? Because we agreed—"

She hangs up on him, and Derek takes the phone back while Stiles is still sputtering.

* * *

"This really fucking hurts, have I told you how much this really fucking hurts, ow, shit, _Derek_ ," Stiles squeezes out. Derek is starting to look a little wild-eyed as Lisa pats Stiles' knee and clucks soothingly at him.

"I know it hurts, it'll be okay," she says. "There, that's dorsi flexion done. Now, sweetie, if you can just turn a bit on your side—"

She and a couple of other technicians had wheeled in a machine that looked more like a shop class drill press than something that should be bombarding his foot with radiation, and now it looms predatorily over the bed, clanking like an old boiler as it photographs his lower leg in increasingly painful positions.

"I'd rather just let it fall off, y'know, the natural way. Or get a hedge witch to chant at it like they did in the dark ages," Stiles pants.

Lisa titters like he's made a fantastically funny joke. "Oh, you! Now for plantar flexion!"

* * *

Mercifully, the images are digital and when the real, actual, medical-degree-possessing doctor (Stiles was beginning to think they were mythical, like unicorns and college football championships) strides into the room, they're ready for him to glance disinterestedly at.

"All right, Mister—" a none too subtle check of the computer screen— "Stilinski, what seems to be the problem?"

Derek is staring at the doctor like he's measuring him for a coffin and honestly, Stiles wouldn't stop him at this point. "My foot is broken," he says, as clearly as he can. " _Broken._ Seriously, what took you so long?"

"Mmhm," the doctor says absently, and Derek starts to get to his feet. Stiles grabs the back of his shirt, pulling him back down.

"Well, you're correct," the doctor continues, completely oblivious to how close he is to sudden, violent death. "I do see some broken bones, but luckily for you it's a simple set of hairline fractures through the first and second metatarsals."

"Metatarsals?"

The doctor points at two longish bones that look exactly like all the other longish bones on the x-ray. "Here, and here. You'll be in a cast for, oh, eight to twelve weeks, I think."

 _Weeks._ "But lacrosse practice starts as soon as school does!"

The doctor chuckles. "Well, son, I'm sorry to say that you won't be participating in any sports for a while. But don't worry! You'll be good as new in a few months."

 _Months._ "I freaking hate geese," Stiles moans. "Whose idea was that, anyway?"

Derek's eyes slide away.

"I thought so."

* * *

Stiles chooses a red shell for his comically oversized plaster cast, the rigid sheath encasing his entire foot all the way up to just below his knee. His toes already itch. Fuck his life.

Insurance money nets him a prescription for some pain medication called Dilaudid (sounds like a sex toy, Jesus) and some fugly aluminum crutches. Derek hovers every hobbling step of the way from the hospital bed to the medical supply station to the car, darting around him to open the door, carefully stowing the crutches in the back seat.

"I don't actually blame you," Stiles says with exasperation, because if Derek grips the steering wheel any harder he's going to break it in half. "I'm the one who dropped it."

"I'm not blaming myself," Derek snaps back, eyes fixed on the road. "You should be more careful."

Stiles gapes at him. "Excuse me? I didn't exactly do it on purpose!"

"You never do," Derek says darkly, and okay, screw this with a shovel. Pointy end first.

"Oh, I'm so sorry for not being some indestructible werewolf he-man! Sorry for being a mere human being!"

"You should be!" Derek yells, and Stiles slumps back against the car door, staring at him.

"Are you even listening to yourself right now? You want me to apologize for being human?"

Derek rolls his shoulders, looks anywhere but at Stiles. "... no. I'd just wish you'd..."

"What?" Stiles says into the pause. "Wish I'd _what_?"

Derek sets his jaw. "I wished you'd start acting like you were. Human. That you'd realize there are things you can't do."

"Fuck you."

"Stiles—"

"No. Shut up." Stiles is so angry now he's ready to lunge across the small space between them and strangle Derek, damn the consequences. "You don't get to tell me what I can't do."

"I'm trying not to. God, I'm _trying_ ," and Derek sounds genuinely pained. "I just don't want you to get hurt."

"Careful, or I might think you care— whoa, what the fuck! Derek!"

The Camaro's wheels shriek and spin in the gravel as Derek wrenches the steering wheel over, slamming on the brakes to bring them to a rough, rocking stop on the side of the road. Stiles gets his hands up against the dash so he doesn't add a broken nose to the night's list of preventable injuries, and manages a shrill, "What the actual fuck, you crazy moron!" before Derek is out of his seat belt and across the center console.

Stiles freezes when Derek's hand covers his, when Derek presses close and bites at Stiles' mouth until it gives way under his teeth. He kisses Stiles almost desperately, crowding him up against the window, forceful and deep until Stiles' jaw aches and he starts kissing back.

Stiles grabs two handfuls of leather jacket and hangs on for dear life, strokes his tongue over the roof of Derek's mouth and gets a hungry little groan in return. The angle is awkward, incredibly awkward, tight and cramped and unbelievably hot as the two of them try to fit fumbling hands and unsteady breaths into the same small space.

"Th' fuck," Stiles slurs out against Derek's jaw, digging his teeth into the sharp angle of it, soothing the sting with his tongue, "are we doing?"

Derek grunts something unintelligible and gets his hands under Stiles shirt, fingers yanking at the fabric. Stiles would warn him not to rip it but getting his good leg over Derek's hip seems like a much more worthwhile endeavor. The payoff comes when Derek slots in between his thighs and even through two layers of denim there is some definite mutual appreciation pressing into the crotch of his jeans.

"Der'k. C'mon."

Derek seems too focused on sucking a vicious hickey into the sensitive skin just below Stiles' ear to respond, and Stiles retaliates with a double palmful of really very excellent ass and a hard squeeze. Derek lets out a little yip that would be freaking hilarious at any other time—

Hell, no, it's hilarious now.

Derek is looking down at him with a confused, glazed expression as Stiles fights to breathe around his wheezing laughter. "What?"

"Nothing," Stiles says, grinning up at him. "You're a flaming asshole."

Now Derek looks even more confused, and a little hurt. Stiles smiles and gives his handfuls another good squeeze, sighing in appreciation as it prompts a rolling thrust of Derek's hips in to his. "Despite that," he says, lifting up to press a quick kiss to Derek's lips because now he can do that, can do it whenever he wants to, because Derek kissed him _first_ , "I'm going to let you drive me home. Then, we'll eat dinner, no matter how burned-up and awful it is, because it's an important part of a parent's job to nurture and support good self-esteem. Then," he says, hands smoothing up Derek's backside to flirt with the waistband of his pants, "We can try this again."

Derek looks like he'd like to argue, but Stiles kisses him again and they get a little lost in it until the headlights of an oncoming car slide across them and they remember where they are.

Derek moves back, into his own seat, and says, "I care."

Stiles smirks. "Trust me, I could feel how much you care."

Derek stares at him stubbornly and Stiles says, more softly, "I get it, Derek. For what it's worth, I do too. And that's why I won't do what you want me to." He holds up a finger when Derek opens his mouth again. "We'll talk later, okay? Actually talk."

Derek pauses, then nods. "Okay."

"Okay," Stiles echoes, and settles back into his seat.

Derek starts the engine again, and they finish the rest of the trip in peaceful silence.

* * *

The house is, miraculously, still standing. Stiles eyes it suspiciously as they pull up, but he can't see any smoke or scorch marks at the windows. Maybe worse, though, is his dad is waiting for them on the front porch, arms folded over his chest and his face granite-hard with disapproval.

"Sorry," Stiles says preemptively, because he's gotten into the habit of keeping his dad out of the loop and it hadn't even occurred to him his dad might worry.

"Not yet," the sheriff promises with a raised eyebrow, "but you will be."

The table is already set, the goose innocently lying there plattered in the middle of the delicious-looking spread, all golden-brown and crisp and perfect. Stiles will enjoy tearing the flesh from it's bones so very much.

Derek pulls out Stiles' chair for him and for once, a gesture like that doesn't make Stiles want to break plate over the man's head. Kisses are a panacea for all that ails him, apparently.

Boyd says grace ("Father, Son, Holy Ghost, eats the fastest eats the most!") and Stiles has his good foot hooked over Derek's ankle and is scooping a huge gooey pile of sweet potatoes onto his plate when something about the tablescape catches his attention.

"Wait, where are the rolls?"

At the other end of the table, Scott bites his lip.

**Author's Note:**

> If you got the impression Stiles was a bit of a Bridezilla with the dinner
> 
> and that everyone was a little glad he was in the hospital for most of the preparations
> 
> you'd be right
> 
> (so very right)


End file.
